


i'm trying not to think about you, can't you just let me be?

by pumpkin130



Series: there's things I want to say to you, but I'll just let you live [2]
Category: The Wilds (TV 2020)
Genre: "you may have lost your someone but you still have your person", (sorta) - Freeform, Angst pt. 2, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/F, Martha the saint, Toni POV, asking for a friend, hey erena James what's your ring size?, my angel the world doesn't deserve her, painting a room is just something that can be so PERSONAL
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-18 11:28:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28617309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pumpkin130/pseuds/pumpkin130
Summary: You wanted to kiss her, to hug her — hell, at that point, you would have taken a freaking handshake — but her father was standing behind her, looking about two seconds away from putting the whole thing together, and you weren’t about to let her get hate-crimed in the middle of freaking B Terminal.So you just nodded.“Yeah. See you around, I guess. Ride a horse for me, or something.”You wanted to scream.IloveyouIloveyouIloveyouDontleavemeDontleavemeDontleaveme.But she was already gone.Or: Toni has gotten a little too good at being left. She isn't sure why this time it feels so different.
Relationships: Regan/Toni Shalifoe (background), Shelby Goodkind/Toni Shalifoe
Series: there's things I want to say to you, but I'll just let you live [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2091093
Comments: 17
Kudos: 118





	i'm trying not to think about you, can't you just let me be?

It’s been three hundred and sixty-five days since the plane went down. 

It’s been two hundred and twenty-one days since you walked away from her at the airport; two hundred and twenty-one days since you saw her smile; two hundred and twenty-one days since you heard her laugh.

It’s been one hundred and ninety-six days since you last spoke to her, since the final shoe had dropped and the curtain had fallen, leaving you with nothing but fractured memories and the word “over” ringing in your ears.

* * *

The airport was cold. You had never liked airports, always thought they were too big and too loud and felt a little too much like  _ goodbye _ .

That word had never really worked out for you.

Somewhere in the distance, you heard Marty telling you that you guys needed to get moving, that you were going to miss your flight, that her parents were waiting for you back home. But you couldn’t move. It was like your feet and your brain had become disconnected, and you were just… 

Standing there. 

Staring at her.

“I’ll… I’ll see you guys soon, I hope. Have a safe flight home. I’ll miss y'all.” Her smile — the pageant smile, not the shy one with soft eyes that seemed to be exclusively reserved for you, because there was a  _ difference _ — didn’t reach her eyes. 

It was like she was looking  _ through _ you, not at you. Eyes stuck somewhere behind your head, existing in a space you couldn’t understand. Somewhere you weren’t able to reach.

(You used to think, when she looked at you, that you were exploding. Like you were sticking your finger into a live socket, every nerve on end, every fiber of your being popping and blazing in perfect symphony).

You wanted to kiss her, to hug her — hell, at that point, you would have taken a freaking handshake — but her father was standing behind her, looking about two seconds away from putting the whole thing together, and you weren’t about to let her get hate-crimed in the middle of freaking B Terminal. 

So you just nodded. 

“Yeah. See you around, I guess. Ride a horse for me, or something.”

You wanted to scream.

_ IloveyouIloveyouIloveyouDontleavemeDontleavemeDontleaveme. _

But she was already gone.

* * *

You tuck the memory away, somewhere deep and dark. Put it next to your mothers jacket, Martha’s body cast, Regan’s car. 

You’ve gotten pretty good at ignoring the things you don’t want to think about. 

* * *

You buy the house. Technically, it’s owned by Mr. and Mrs. Blackburn, but you paid for it. Everyone got the same settlement (your brain isn’t quite able to comprehend the number of zeros in your bank account), but there's a big difference between that money supporting one person and supporting six, and that’s before factoring in all of Martha’s health stuff.

So you buy the house. Have the bank tell the Blackburns it’s from an anonymous donor, put on your best poker face when asked about it, and act like you haven’t already picked out yours and Marty’s rooms when you all go to look at it. 

It’s not grand, by any means, but everyone has their own room and the kitchen has a freaking island which just like, what? And you feel so  _ proud _ when you look at it, feel like you’re just starting to pay them all back for everything they’ve done for you.

You feel like you have a real home for the first time in your life. With loud dinners every night around the table Mr. Blackburn made, and music and laughter running up and down the halls. 

You try not to think about how much she would love it. How she could look out the windows, sun in her hair, how much Marty’s sisters would adore her, how your bed is really made for two people, not one.

But she’s in Texas, and you’re in Minnesota, and it’s been three weeks and she hasn’t called.

* * *

Everyone keeps telling you to give her time, that she’s got a lot of shit to work out. And like, okay, but you’ve been left a few too many times to not see where the whole thing is going.

So while you drive around in the shitty little car you got yourself, buying all the quilts and trinkets and memories you can get your hands on — because fuck it, you have a  _ home _ , might as well get some shit to put in it — you put her away. Package your time together into little boxes, putting them on a shelf in the back of your mind, and  _ try, try, try _ to let her go. 

She’s just a little stubborn, is all. And it was a lot easier to push her aside when you were still convinced you hated her. 

* * *

It’s Leah that asks if you’ve ever tried painting. Tells you it’s what she does when “My head gets a little too full.”

You haven’t, and you know you don't have the talent,  _ definitely  _ do not have the patience — you have never been applauded for your patience — but it’s Leah, and you kind of feel like saying no to her is on the same plane as kicking a puppy, so you decide to give it a try. 

You don’t create the aggressive abstract pieces you assume she was imagining, don’t try to dabble in surrealism, or landscapes, or any of that weird modern shit. Instead, you take a look at the white walls in the first room that is really, truly, fully  _ yours _ and you think that painting might not be the worst idea in the world.  
  


* * *

You weren’t ready for it, when she finally did call you. You weren’t warned, weren’t given time to brace yourself for the impact, so there she was, crashing into you and knocking you off kilter once again, all your meticulously placed boxes  _ falling, falling, falling. _

When her name popped up on your phone, you felt the same way you did when the plane went down: unequivocally unprepared, and absolutely terrified. 

* * *

“Hey”

You were stunned silent. Just hearing her voice was enough to send you catapulting backwards through time, standing on the island, looking at her through narrowed eyes.

“I’m… I’m sorry to be calling so late.”

“...”

“I know it’s been awhile since we talked, and I… I just wanted to say hi?”

“...”

“You know, the polite thing to do is to say hi back”

“...”

She huffed into the phone. “How are you? I feel like it’s been so long since we talked, and I know Dottie has kind of been keeping me updated, about all of y'all. Not just you, of course. That would be weird.” 

She was rambling. Tripping over her words, accent slowing her down.

“Did Fatin tell you about the movie? I can’t even believe it. I mean, I know I said we would probably be famous, but I thought talk show famous, not like, make a movie about us famous.”

It reminded you of the morning under the lychee tree, her stumbling and dancing around what she really wanted to say. It reminded you of how she looked at you that morning, all soft and wanting and  _ happy _ .

You give in, just a little.

“Yeah, yeah she told us. Marty about lost it. Kept jumping up and down and knocking into her mom. It was pretty great.”

“I can imagine.”

The line went silent again.

“I wonder,” you began, mind flashing back to all those moments on the island, when she would go deadly quiet and all you wanted to do was make her say _ something —  _ ‘“I wonder if they’ll keep all that shit in with you and the icebreakers. I can see all the Buzzfeed quizzes already: ‘Which poorly-timed Shelby Goodkind game are you?’”

She laughed softly in your ear. A reward. You kept going.

Always glutton for punishment, you are.

“Fatin said no one is allowed to sign anything until they agree to let her play herself. Said that no one else could properly embody ‘the aesthetic’, or something like that.”

She was quiet,  _ again _ . Honestly, you would think you were the one that called her. You were about to make another joke, maybe even ask her how she was doing — which like, the fact you needed to engage in fucking small talk with her was a problem in and amongst itself, when —

“I belong to you, you know. I’ll always belong to you.”

You felt the floor fall out from under you, felt your breath leave your chest. It’s a shot to the heart, and it tears you right down the middle. You were drowning, drowning in her eyes and in her smile and in her laugh and in her soul.

“I miss you,” you wanted to say.

“Why did you leave?” you wanted to scream.

“I belong to you too,” you wanted to sob.

What you do say: “I’m not sure what you want from me, Shelby.”

You hang up the phone. 

_ The end. _

* * *

It’s not like you haven’t been left before. You don’t understand why this time it feels so different. 

* * *

You paint your bathroom first. Well, yours and Marty’s bathroom. She helps you with it, picking out a truly sickening shade of lavender (but you love her, so you get over it) and showing you how to line up the tape so the paint doesn’t go everywhere. 

You consider it some kind of practice round. A warm-up, before the real game. 

You aren’t very good at it, the painting, but you can feel something inside of yourself still when you do it. The only thing you have to worry about is the wall in front of you. You find peace in the monotony, and end up finishing the project at two AM when you can’t sleep.

Martha finds you the next morning splayed out on the bathroom floor, head resting on the still wet tray. She takes about a million pictures, and it takes for- _ fucking _ -ever to get all the paint out of your hair.

She is still laughing when she rocks you awake. You haven’t heard her laugh like that in a long time.

You would submerge your entire body in that heinous, vomit-inducing purple to keep her to laughing like that.

* * *

Somehow, you manage to beg your way back onto the basketball team. You know it’s  _ at least _ an eighty percent charity roster, but you can’t find it in yourself to care. 

Beggars can’t be choosers, and after almost starving to death and being trapped in an underground bunker by a psychotic scientist, you’re just happy to play again.

And your hands have been shaking a little (lot) less since you’ve gone back, so you can’t really find it in you to get that mad about it.

You have to earn back your captain spot, though. “Gotta make you work for it a little bit,” your coach winks at you, and you think you might just be forgiven for the whole throwing pee incident.

Getting stranded on a deserted island in the middle of the Pacific isn’t good for a lot, but it sure does make people a lot more willing to forget your more… ill-advised decisions. 

Rachel sends you a fucking gift basket when she finds out, and in the card she swears to call you every day and “Remind your impulsive ass not to fuck it up again”. She threatens to drive to Minnesota and become your live-in trainer, and you swear on your life that you won’t get kicked off again.

She still calls every day. You don’t really mind. Hearing her yell at you became your normal at one point. 

You’ve almost missed it.

* * *

It takes almost a month to find the right color for your bedroom. You want to paint it green, you know that much, but something about all the colors you try is just… off. You aren’t sure why — maybe they too closely resemble the color of the island, and your brain is deploying some kind of defense mechanism against the memory — but you are committed, and won’t settle for anything less than perfect.

Maybe you can do patience a little better than you thought.

Martha looks at you with big, sad eyes when you bring it up at dinner. 

“It’s just paint, Marty. I’m not having like, trigger inducing flashbacks or anything. Besides, I’m just getting samples, which is awesome, because they’re all free. I mean, the guy at Lowes is about to straight up murder me, but I can take him,” you wink at her.

“Oh, Toni,” she sighs as she looks back down at her food, and you don’t get what the big deal is. 

You kick at her chair, forcing her eyes to meet yours again. 

“I’m all good, okay? It’s just a little green.” Your voice quickly adopted that soft quality that is pretty much exclusively reserved for her. 

Her eyes flash quickly then, something like understanding shooting across her irises. 

She nods at you, smiles a little. “Yeah, it’s just green.”

The conversation is over. You still don’t get it.

You go back to your search, and when the guy at Lowes tells you that “I can’t give you any more samples. We have never had to enforce this policy until now, but there is a first time for everything, I suppose,” you switch to Home Depot, but not before you knock over a display of paint stirrers.

You’re trying to work on the whole anger thing, but you’re not a saint, okay?

* * *

You start seeing a therapist: Dr. Jackson, a small, quiet lady that Mama B found for you and Marty.

It used to unnerve you, how she would just sit there and stare at you, while you talked and talked and talked. It wasn’t even like you were saying anything important — mostly just complaining about school — but she would just sit there and  _ listen. _

It was weird. People don’t usually care that much about what you have to say. 

She talks to you about how to calm yourself down. How you need to “stop and breathe more, instead of holding it in and then going off on whoever ends up in your way.” She tells you that you have abandonment issues and PTSD and some pretty serious anger problems, which like, no shit, but then she leans forward in her chair and tells you something else. 

“You know Toni, you aren’t broken. You aren’t any  _ less _ because of these things. They’re like scars: proof of everything you’ve been through. And everyone has scars, some are just a little bigger than others. They aren’t anything to be ashamed of.”

She doesn’t mention the tears welling up in the corners of your eyes at the end of her little speech, just hands you a tissue box and starts talking about her cats.

Dr. Jackson’s pretty chill, you decide.

* * *

It’s a Thursday, when you find it: the perfect green. It’s just dark enough to be peaceful, but bright enough to be alive. 

You paint your whole room, doing three coats for good measure. You are so,  _ so _ careful with the paint, treating it like it’s some kind of treasure. You don’t know why this has become so important to you, but Dr. Jackson keeps telling you to try and enjoy your happy moments instead of worrying about when they’ll leave you, so you just kind of roll with it. 

When you are done, you stare at the walls, feeling so content and at home it makes you a little uncomfortable. 

Martha stares at the color for a long, long time. There is some emotion churning behind her eyes that you can’t place when she finally looks at you. Whatever it is flares when you ask her what she thinks. 

“It makes me sad,” she tells you.

She won’t say why.

* * *

It’s mean, and petty, and vindictive, and pretty horrible of you, but you get back with Regan. She had been floating in and out of your peripheral vision ever since you had returned home, offering herself to you as some kind of reward for surviving. 

You’re using each other. You both know this. She’s trying to quench some misplaced guilt she has over your breakup — which was terrible, but you’ve been over it for awhile, and it doesn't have anything to do with how you ended up on that island — and you’re trying to forget about the blonde that stole your heart and ran off to Texas with it.

Doesn’t the Bible say thou shall not steal?

You’re not pretending, and neither is she. She knows what you in love looks like. She knows it doesn’t look like this.

You know it's probably the worst thing you've ever done. You blame a lot of the things you've messed up on your situation, on your lack of parents, on your lack of… everything. But this? This is all you.

Dr. Jackson tells you that you have “self-destructive tendencies” and need to “stop sabotaging your own happiness”.

Marty tells you to stop quoting Dr. Jackson all the time.

You roll your eyes and tell her to fuck off.

But like, in the nicest way possible.

* * *

You point blank refuse to talk about it. Not to Marty, not to Dr. Jackson, not to Mrs. Blackburn. Not to anybody.

Everyone tries. It’s this… thing, looming over every conversation you have. You can feel them, waiting for you to bring it up, waiting for you to just  _ mention _ her, even in passing.

You refuse.

It’s like your last defense against her. The last thing you can truly do to protect yourself from her. So you keep her a secret — even though you  _ know _ everybody knows, between Fatin and her big mouth and you and Martha’s shared therapist. It’s in their eyes when they talk to you. Looking at you, waiting for what they feel is the inevitable breakdown. 

You refuse to give them the satisfaction. You refuse to be heartbroken over her.

Where you usually get loud, you go quiet. 

You can tell it’s unnerving Marty, her whispered conversations with Dot drifting through the thin walls. 

She doesn’t talk about you either, apparently. Too busy trying to pray the gay away, you assume.

That would’ve made her smile, you know. Before. You push the thought _down, down, down_.

* * *

You send the photo of you with Regan on a whim, more to get a reaction than anything. 

Rachel calls you and yells at you for your forty-eight minutes — you counted — Nora peppering insults in the background. Dot doesn’t speak to you for three whole days. Even Leah — who never even really  _ liked _ Shelby — sends you a picture of  _ The Nature of You _ , no caption, as if it’s supposed to be some kind of reminder of what heartbreak looks like. 

Fatin dislikes the message from Marty confirming who it is in the picture with you. 

You hurl your phone out of your bedroom window, but then of course you have to go get it, so it wasn’t exactly your smartest move. 

In hindsight, nothing about the situation was really your smartest move.

Shelby doesn’t even say anything. 

* * *

You’re waiting for Dr. Jackson to bring it up. To ask you what happened.

That’s the thing, though. You’re not even sure what happened. All you know is that one second she was yours, in your arms and in your heart, and then she was gone. 

You talk about everything else. About Regan, your parents, the long list of foster families you gave up keeping track of. Talk about your rage, even, how your vision starts to blink out and everything seems to speed up, until you’re facing whatever it is you have done, and time goes impossibly, painfully slow.

Sometimes, you think about asking her the question that has lodged itself in your gut, refusing to be shaken free.

You’ve given up blaming yourself for most of the stuff that happens to you. You know you shouldn’t, that Dr. Jackson would probably tell you that “the only way to get past your demons is to face them”, but it’s just so much  _ easier _ to say that it’s everyone else in your life that has screwed you over.

But with her… you can’t help but feel that  _ you’re _ the one that broke her, that you pushed too hard and too fast and ended up shoving her off a cliff. 

That maybe she was just confused, and you were there, and she was lonely, and you took advantage. 

You can feel her, in those moments, pushing herself up against you, whispering in your ear. She’s always warm, and impossibly soft, breathing into you, filling you up. 

She stands behind Dr. Jackson, taunting you. Raising a perfectly manicured eyebrow, staring you down.

“What about me?” She asks. “What did I do to deserve this?”

* * *

You are a black hole and she was a star, and you sucked her up like you do everything else. Buried and abandoned her, and you’re still walking around acting like what happened between the two of you was her fault.

You think you might be a little broken, no matter what Dr. Jackson says. People who are whole don’t do things like that. 

* * *

You see it coming, this time. See it in her eyes, in the way she stops touching you, which she barely did anyway.

She doesn’t hold you, not anymore. Never how she used to — before — on top of the old trucks in the junkyard, practically on top of one another. In those moments, you could have sworn you were occupying the same body, pressed impossibly close to one another.

She had told you she loved you there, a million lifetimes ago. Now, you’re standing in front of her, watching her say goodbye to you again. 

It doesn’t even hurt.

You decide you are definitely broken. Whole people don’t get discarded and just… live with it. They don’t nod and say they get it, don’t  _ not feel anything _ .

They also don’t go around smashing windows. You were broken before Shelby, you realize. She just cracked you a little more.

* * *

You’re back home, laying in your bed, staring at the walls. Regan had dumped you, for the second time, and you’re not even sad about it. 

You’re just feeling particularly nostalgic, and a little sorry for yourself, and you allow yourself to remember. The memories don’t hurt, not anymore. 

Regan, smiling at you over that stupid fetal pig.

Regan, singing to you. 

Regan, in the gym.

Regan, in the hallways. 

Regan, lip bleeding about looking at you like… like you’re some sort of wild animal.

You squeeze your eyes shut, willing the memory away. But it just keeps playing, and playing, and playing, over and over and over until you can’t take it anymore.

You rocket up, your now open eyes zeroing in on the beautiful, calming, incandescent —

_ Oh. _

It hits you like a punch in the gut.

New memories shoot up, battling you down, surrounding you.

Her, grabbing you on the plane, the electricity that shot down your shoulders the minute her skin connected to yours. Her, singing on that hill, making you smile just a little bit before your impulses got the best of you. Her, laughing with Marty, filling your body with unidentified fire. Her, through hazy eyes,  _ launching _ herself on you, her  _ saving  _ you _.  _ Her, kissing you. Her, laughing with you. Her, looking at you so, so softly. Her, looking at you like you mattered. Like you mattered to her.

_ Her, her, her. _

Her eyes: beautiful, calming, incandescent.

Your senses are in overdrive, and you can’t help yourself. You look. Allow yourself to lock in on the green, allow yourself to get lost in it. 

You thought yourself pathetic before, but nothing can really top you painting your room the exact color of her fucking eyes. 

* * *

You thought you were healed, okay? Still broken, but glued back together. You had gone and stitched yourself back up, reinforcing old wounds and using a firm hand on the new ones.

You were _ over her. _

You thought you had scrubbed yourself free of her, had pushed her aside and buried any pieces left over deep, deep into the recesses of your memory, where not even you could find her.

Dr. Jackson calls it “an avoidance tactic”. She tells you it “isn’t healthy”. 

You finally told her the whole story. She says that the two of you are “far too good at hurting each other”.

* * *

Your room goes back to white. 

Martha looks at you with those big, remorseful eyes, and it makes you shudder a little bit, just how well she knows you.

“It makes me sad,” she had told you.

You can’t decide if you’re mad at her for not saying anything or thankful that she didn’t.

You punch a hole in your wall anyway. 

You feel like you’re trapped in a maze, and have no freaking clue how to get out. Everywhere you look, it’s just  _ her, her, her _ , and you can’t escape it. 

* * *

You start smoking. Martha hates it: lecturing, then screaming, then whispering “It’ll kill you Toni.”

You don’t remind her there are a lot of other things that could kill you. Like planes, and islands, and hunger, and sharks, and scientists, and girls that are all of a sudden saving you and kissing you and looking at you like you hung the moon, and then  _ leaving, leaving, leaving _ .

You think you’ve earned the right to smoke.

You don’t deny her a lot. But it gives you something to do with your hands, something to focus on. You like to watch the smoke, how it curls  _ up, up, up _ and away. The smell reminds you of the island, of the fire burning on the beach, of the fire burning in your belly.

You tell her you’ve stopped, and what she doesn’t know won’t kill her, right? Everyone has secrets.

Still though, you make sure you only reach for your lighter at night, opening your window and looking up at the stars, watching the smoke curl  _ up, up, up _ and away. It dances along the wind,  _ gone, gone, gone. _

* * *

They go back to school, apparently. Send you all a selfie to “commemorate the moment”. When it comes in on your phone, you stare at it for so long, it’s still there when you close your eyes. 

She looks… exactly the same as she did the first time you saw her: hair down to there, pancake faced, smile blazing up at you.

Her hair is in a ponytail. You scowl at it.

She even got her freaking nails put back on.

Dot looks significantly less impressed. She’s scowling up at the camera, and it feels so natural you almost start crying. 

You can’t bring yourself to say anything in the groupchat. Don’t know what to say. You haven’t talked to her since that horrible phone call, her words still banging in your chest.

_ I belong to you, you know. I’ll always belong to you. _

You text Dot instead, refusing to let your heartbreak hurt her.

You’re proud of her. You say so.

The phone call is unexpected, but not unwelcome. You answer on the second ring, the redheaded Texan’s voice booming at you from hundreds of miles away.

“You need to talk to her. I don’t know what went down between the two of you, but whatever happened, she isn’t okay. And what she’s doing to herself… it’s not healthy.”

You don’t say anything. You don’t even know what to say.

You can  _ feel _ Dot glaring as she continues.

“And honestly, I don’t think you’re okay either. The rest of us talk, you know. Martha’s worried about you. Says you aren’t eating, are barely sleeping. She keeps saying shit about you room, and paint, but it doesn’t make any fucking sense. So, will you just  _ talk  _ to her? Please? Jesus, do it for Marty. Toni, she doesn’t know how to help you. She doesn’t even know what fucking  _ happened _ . None of us do.”

You have to say  _ something.  _ Have to justify what's going one, have to fix it, have to —

“I’m really proud of you. Of… of both of you. What you guys did today… It’s really brave.”

It’s the only thing that comes out. All your other words are stuck in your throat, held back by something you don’t understand.

The line goes quiet for so long, you almost think she hung up on you. And then —

“We barely made it past lunch. Had to leave after gym. Shelby saw some brunette playing basketball and flipped out. It looked like she had seen a fucking ghost.”

You sigh. 

“I’m not dead. Tell her I saw hi, I guess.”

“Just talk to her, Toni. You’re a fucking idiot if you think she doesn’t miss you just as much as you miss her.”

This time, she actually does hang up.

You throw your phone out the window again. You don’t bother going to get it.

* * *

You know she doesn’t, but you feel like Shelby should smell like smoke. 

Something about that just seems right.

* * *

Mrs. Blackburn is the one that brings you your phone. Looks at you with Martha’s eyes. Gives you the biggest, longest,  _ tightest _ hug you think you’ve ever gotten.

You don’t start crying until after she leaves. You don’t stop for a long, long time.

* * *

_ Enough.  _

Enough.

* * *

Martha is laying on her bed, and looks up when you enter.

Sits up ramrod straight, and scoots over. Pats the spot next to her.

She’s always known how to handle you. When you were little, she used to put her hands on either side of your head, tell you to “Just breathe, Toni. Look at me. Look at me. It’s okay. It’s all going to be okay. Just breathe with me.”

She is the best thing that ever happened to you.

You collapse into her. Thought you were all cried out, but apparently not.

“I can’t stop,” you sob into her shoulder. “I can’t make it stop. I don’t know what to do.”

You feel like you’re existing in the space a person should occupy, but you’re just empty.

You tell her this.

You tell her other things, too.

“I can’t let her go, Marty. I try, and try, and try, but she’s always there. And I don’t even know what  _ happened. _ I don’t even know what I did. She just… she just  _ left _ .”

You aren't just broken, you realize. You are shattered.

And then… 

Her hands on either side of your head, and suddenly, you’re nine again, staring into the biggest, kindest, strongest eyes you’ve ever seen.

_ Martha _ .

“Listen to me, Toni Shalifoe. It’s all going to be okay. If you’re empty, I’ll fill you up. When you’re sad, I’ll make you laugh. I’m with you.”

_ Martha. _

Her eyes are boring into yours, shoving every piece of love she can give into you.

“You may have lost your someone, but you will  _ never  _ lose me.”

She pushes your foreheads together, and says it.

_ “ _ You are my sister.  _ I. Will. Never. Leave. You.” _

_ Marty. _

You dissolve in her arms.

She sits there and holds you.

Even though you don’t believe in them, you’ll spend the rest of your life thanking any God that will listen for bringing you Martha Blackburn.

* * *

Hours later, you’re woken up by a soft knocking on your arm. 

Marty is standing next to you, smile splitting her face open.

“Do you know what today is?”

* * *

It’s been one hundred and ninety-six days since you last spoke to her, since the final shoe had dropped and the curtain had fallen, leaving you with nothing but fractured memories and the word “over” ringing in your ears.

It’s been two hundred and twenty-one days since you walked away from her at the airport; two hundred and twenty-one days since you saw her smile; two hundred and twenty-one days since you heard her laugh.

It’s been a year since your plane crashed in the middle of the ocean. It’s been a year since the day your life became a literal waking nightmare. 

You’re watching the sunrise with your best friend — your  _ sister _ — in the backyard of the home you live in with your family.

You think you might just be okay. 

**Author's Note:**

> oops. once again I'm begging for y'all to not hate me
> 
> This was supposed to be a one shot, but then it was almost 4,000 words long and only halfway done. Also, I'm impatient.
> 
> work/chapter titles from A Fine Frenzy's "Almost Lover"


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